Quiver
by PokeyDotes
Summary: "It's a competition. A secret game she's playing with herself, the goal being to see how long she can stay still, how long she can take it."
For those who are just joining us, my sister recently wrote me a list of alphabet prompts to help break my writer's block. At the request of a reviewer, I tackled "Q". Have you ever sat down and started writing without any idea of where you wanted the story to go? Needless to say, this story took a drastically different turn than what I had expected.

* * *

quiv·er

/ˈkwivər/

 _verb_

tremble or shake with a slight rapid motion.

 _noun_

a slight trembling movement or sound, especially one caused by a sudden strong emotion.

* * *

They had opened the windows, turned the ceiling fans on high and hoped for the best. Hoped like crazy that a little physics and a lot of luck would create a breeze to break up the stifling heat.

It's April, early enough in the year and far enough from Summer that LA should be nice and cozy, the perfect combination of sea-side breeze and Spring time sun to make a long sleeved walk through the streets fairly comfortable.

But it's the first of April, and Mother Nature decided to prank them all.

Record setting was how the weatherman described it. Humid and fucking miserable were the words Deeks had used. Kensi believed them both.

There are few things in life that makes one look forward to a cold shower. Oppressive heat wave falls somewhere between a run in with pepper spray and a second-degree sunburn.

She runs the towel through her damp hair, openly enjoying the way the wet ends rest against her skin, sending cool droplets tumbling down her shoulder blades. She leans against the doorjamb, watching as Deeks sorts through a pack of markers.

"You look like a first grader at craft time."

He looks up, flashes a grin and then proceeds to pick green. "You're just jealous."

"Of a coloring book?" she snorts, tossing the dampened towel on the floor.

" _Adult_ coloring book," he corrects, not for the first time since he bought it. "It promotes relaxation and stress relief. You should try it."

"No thanks." She looks around the bedroom, eyeing the flannel pair of pajama bottoms with a harsh eye. She settles on a simple t-shirt and pair of panties, deciding that if Deeks can walk about in his underwear, then she can too. "I prefer to pass my time doing something with a better payout than simply being proud I managed to stay in the lines."

Deeks shakes his head and continues to color. "I'm almost positive we had this exact same conversation in the book store."

"We did," she says with a smile. "And the man in line agreed with me."

"The man in line was in his seventies, kept complaining about the hipsters running the coffee shop, and wouldn't stop telling me that I needed a haircut. Hey!" He frowns as Kensi plops on the bed, the sudden movement sending the green marker out of line.

"Whoops." Kensi's tone makes it clear she isn't sorry. "And you do need a haircut."

"I'm pretty sure we've had this conversation before, too," Deeks tells her as he reaches in his box of markers and switches colors.

She decides to ignore him, choosing instead to roll on her stomach and enjoy the temporary coolness of the pillow resting against her cheek.

She listens to the sounds of suburban LA drifting through the windows, to Monty's claws click-clacking against the hardwoods as he meanders from room to room. She focuses on the sound of markers bumping together as Deeks switches colors, on the steady rhythm of their breathing slowly falling in sync.

It's relaxing, up until the moment the phone decides to ring.

She feels the bed dip as Deeks leans towards the nightstand and the ringing phone. She closes her eyes and folds her arms tighter around her pillow as he answers the phone with a tired, "Deeks."

She can hear the sound of his mother's voice through the speaker, her worried ramblings eventually leading to the point. Her eyes are closed, and she's faced the wrong way, but she's willing to bet money that Deeks is rolling his eyes, that he keeps alternating between an irritated jaw clench and an impatient lip lick along with the intermittent "I know, Mom" and "I promise I won't forget".

She feels the bed dip again as he says, "Yes, I'm writing it down as we speak."

And then there's an unexpected wetness and the back of her leg, just below the band of her panties, the weight of his hand resting comfortably against her butt cheek.

She turns her head and tries to see what he's done. Squinting her eyes, she stares at him in exasperated, slack jawed disbelief as he quickly ends the phone call with a promised "I love you, too, Mom."

"Did you just use my ass as a post-it note?"

"Technically, it was your upper thigh."

"I just took a shower."

"It'll wash off."

"I can't believe you," she huffs, stretching her neck to give her thigh another strained look before laying her head back down. She's still fuming when she feels Deeks scoot closer to her, his fingers gently sliding the edge of her t-shirt up her back an inch or two.

She lifts her head again, and watches him with mistrust. "What are you doing?"

"You ever give yourself a Crayola tattoo as a kid?" he asks, once again putting felt tip to skin.

"Deeks!"

"It'll wash off," he reminds her, "just relax."

She feels the smooth coolness of the marker's tip tickle across her hip as he begins to speak.

"When we were kids, maybe seven or eight, Ray and I got the idea that we wanted tattoos…"

She crosses her wrists beneath the pillow and lays her head on top, trying to make up her mind on whether or not she wants to listen or smother him with a pillow.

"We locked the bathroom door, took off our shirts and started drawing," he continues quietly, the lower volume making his voice deeper, the gravel more pronounced. "We had the whole rainbow of colors etched out, anywhere our arms could reach."

His knuckles slowly nudge her shirt a little further up her back as he expands his artwork.

He keeps talking, his sentences getting shorter as he tells her about his mom's reaction, about the slowly fading pirate ship he had sketched on the side of his neck.

She closes her eyes as he scoots closer, one arm crossing over her hip as he rests his body against the back of her legs, gaining better access to his slowly relaxing canvas.

Eventually, he stops talking, his attention solely focused on the task at hand, on the slide of the marker across her exposed skin. She opens her eyes to watch him. He doesn't even notice, his eyes glued to her back, the lid to a black marker resting loosely between his teeth.

As he leans in closer, she feels his breath ghost against the still wet ink, causing her muscles to tense, the little hairs on her arm to stand on end. She knows she'll regret it later, that "washable" doesn't necessarily mean "easy to remove."

But now it's a competition. A secret game she's playing with herself, the goal being to see how long she can stay still, how long she can take it.

Her shirt's pushed up past her shoulder blades now, the majority of her back covered in Deeks' carefully crafted artwork.

Each stroke of the marker, as it slides over taught muscle and spine, tickles and excites. It makes her breath catch, makes a pressure build between her legs, and forces her body to the edge of shivering with anticipation.

But she forces herself to relax, to enjoy the feel of the man above her giving her body his undivided attention.

Eventually, he runs out of room and begins to retrace his steps, once again following her spine down to the curve of her ass. The tips of his fingers tug at the waistband of her underwear, knuckles gently nudging her, urging her to lift her hips to make it easier for him to slide them down.

She obliges, and he continues his artful administrations.

And then it becomes clear that her secret game is no longer one sided. She's no longer competing with herself. She feels his body begin to respond to hers, feels the slight increase in his breathing as the marker presses harder against her skin.

And the urge, that need to shiver with want is all the more demanding.

She presses her face into her pillow and counts his breaths, forces hers to be more relaxed.

But then the marker's gone and it's just him. His fingers trace over the lines he's drawn, blunt nails occasionally scratching against her spine and shoulder blades.

And then she's not sure if she's won or not, if he's finally given in, but he suddenly flips her over, hands hurriedly pushing her t-shirt completely off as he continues his explorations. Only this time, his focus is truly on her, not the artwork. This time she gets to watch as ink smeared hands trace her hipbones, follow the curve of her breast.

Maybe thirty heartbeats later, she concedes to a tie. Her fingers tug his hair, urging him to meet her. It's his turn to oblige, and when he does, she kisses him.

It's hurried, a little painful and full of too much teeth, but she doesn't really care. It's more of a starting point, a green light for the race she really wants to run.

And run they do.

She ignores the open windows, chooses to forget that any and all who pass by could hear them, see them if they try. She doesn't care that Deeks' box of markers ends up toppling over the edge of the bed, rolling across the floor in eight different directions.

The air is still oppressive. The added bonus of exertion and sweat do nothing to help, but it definitely gives them something else to focus on.

Eventually, her body gets its needed release, that universally known pulse that stops the breath, quickens the heart, and makes everything else non-existent.

A true quiver in every sense of the word.

Come morning, there'll be ink stained sheets, stiff muscles, and a mischievous smile as Kensi picks up one of the forgotten markers and decides it's her turn.

End.


End file.
